Crowley drops on the couch next to him in a full slouch, leaning against the opposite side, his own glass of wine in his hand. It feels like it's been ages since they've been like this, and this feels particularly good right now, them just being themselves. Crowley being difficult and rude, and Aziraphale being huffy and perfect.

Crowley gives Aziraphale a loving gaze. He is so wonderful when he is like this.

"No? Aren't there a lot of great works of literature you could quote to me that have rather racy parts in it? De Sade? Madame Bovary? Lolita? Fifty Shades of Grey?"